are you out there, somewhere? staring into the dark searching for the morning light; are you out there, somewhere? to bring me back from the world of bottles and needles; every one the last even though there’s always another waiting in the shadows. are you out there, somewhere? to hold my hand, to feel my pulse through my bleeding skin? the faintest sound another memory long gone; destroyed by the booze, eradicated by wrong embraces. I need you, once again, to keep me warm through the endless winter. freezing, just like then, and the needle has lost its warmth. are you out there, somewhere? waiting for my return, patiently sitting in the corner hoping for the promised miracle. a sun that never rises, a mist that shall never be lifted; hiding in the dense forest, running away, fast and far, escaping the ruins that burned too fast. squinting into the vast nothingness of eternal damnation and I smile; your former words sweet music to my perishing heart. is it you I see walking amid the debris? are you still out there, somewhere, searching for the final pieces of the puzzle? another attempt, you’re nowhere, I’m everywhere; both lost, both found, only the needle is keeping us apart. are you out there, somewhere? I ask the night, question the stars; they can’t explain why your kisses were tossed into the bottomless well. another blurry night, more mistakes, sins added to an already extensive list. it’s all right, no need for forgiveness. I warm the needle, the junk has melted. are you out there, somewhere? Eighty Thousand Words write long novels, said someone I barely knew, one of them advisors that know nothing but how to sell bullshit. long novels sell. I spoke to a woman about a novel I wrote at 19, it’s more than two hundred thousand words long—still not long enough to match Wolfe—and she liked the plot. told me to translate it, publish it. she also asked about the inspiration, the drinking and drug-abusing. I said, it’s fiction. it’s meant to be the disclaimer on whatever’s published—it’s a work of fiction, don’t call the feds. could I have mentioned I started it when I was underage and getting my feet wet on the ring of drunkardism and finished it on a spree of rotgut, speed, and pure junk? some chapters are repetitive as fuck, I blame blow. some are harsh and honest; bourbon does that. it’s a work of fiction. like this poem. the woman never called again—she wasn’t a drinker, one beer and she was off. after the date, I got plastered at a bar near home—some Irish guy bought a barrage of well scotch shots. we got under the table drunk, then I was teleported in my bed. it’s a work of fiction, do remember that, when you tell me I’m 86’d or mention the tab. The Mauve Moon lonely wolves howl at the mauve moon as marauders come knocking, razing ancient landmarks. stare at the starless sky, the great green mushroom—all gone, nothing left but the final wails of unborn souls trapped in limbo. sour grapes turned into sweet wine, bottles emptied horrid taste, gruesome realities and morbid details, nets made of fire catching rational men. eradicate, destroy, rebuild; what a fine writing on a half-ruined brick wall in the middle of the ocean. look down, all the towers emerge from under the sea—old homes now belonging to fish and mermaids. Ulysses’ sirens reappear, under the liquor store they swim, amidst the shelves they sing. if you are, die; if you think, you don’t exist. Voltaire’s ghost promenades in the ruins, somewhere in the distance Aristotle’s swilling Thunderbird. we’re still around—the liquor store clerk polishes a shotgun, two kids shotgun beer in the back alley. the mauve moon howls, the echo shattering what remains of the world.
Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and is the author of Letters to S. (Storylandia), Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books), and Of the Riverside (Anxiety Press). His words have also appeared in various places, such as Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Cajun Mutt Press, Fixator Press, Outcast Press, Piker’s Press, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.